Ricky’s driving, so when my phone vibrates in my pocket, I can pull it out and take a look. It’s Angelo. He’s sent me a photograph of the tie he used on my wrists last night, no words. I text him: Ooh, you’re mysterious. I’m kinda busy, playboy xoxo.
Angelo: Saving lives?
Me: Yeah, something like that. I haven’t forgiven you, BTW.
Angelo: That makes two of us, I haven’t forgiven you, either.
I laugh despite myself. For what?
For making it impossible to work this morning, he texts. All I can think about is how wet and perfect your pussy looked when you were bent over for me. I need to see you.
I glance at Ricky, but he’s not even looking. He’s head-banging to some metal song. I’m at work, I text. Don’t do this to me.
He texts: Give me something to keep me sane, then.
A rush of excitement moves through me. Yeah, but can I trust you?
Yes, he texts. Just that one word. And, absurdly, I believe him.
Be patient, then. I’m busy.
“Boyfriend?” Ricky asks casually as I set my phone to silent and put it away.
“What?” I say, trying to laugh it off. “You know I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Shit, Dani, with the way you were smiling then, a simpler man might say you look smitten.”
I flip him the bird.
“Smitten as a kitten,” he laughs, and then we get a call.
The laughter stops right away when we hear what it is: another overdose.
We get there and discover it’s another upper-class kid, rolling around on his kitchen floor with expensive silverware scattered everywhere from where he fell against the drawer.
He’ll be okay, but then there’s another one just like it, and another, and by the end of the shift I feel like I’m going to tear my hair out. Because all I think is: Wyatt, Wyatt. Over and over, like a curse, it won’t stop. There are other calls—traffic collisions, a heart attack, a broken wrist—but they hardly seem real to me.
As we pull into our parking space, Ricky nods shortly at me. “You’re not going soft on me, are you, Dani?” he jokes, checking to see if I’m solid.
“Of course not,” I laugh. “It’s just—it’s getting so bad.”
“Yeah,” Ricky says grimly, “it is.”
I go to the staff room and check my phone. Angelo has texted me just one more time: I need to see you.
That same thrill moves through me, because being sexy and desired is about a million times better than thinking about my brother OD’ing on some kitchen floor. So I go into the bathroom, lock the door, and pull my shirt over my head. I don’t take off my bra, though, and I keep my face out of the shot. I send it to him hurriedly before I can talk myself out of it.
He doesn’t text back until I get home. I’m just pulling up outside the apartment complex when I feel my phone vibrate. When I check it, I see that he’s just sent me a winking emoji. I call him up right away.
“You do know that the winking emoji is the most frustrating one in the universe, right?”
He chuckles. “Is that so? Wait a second.” A pause, and then my phone vibrates again. I check it and see that he’s sent me about one hundred winking emojis. “Rule one of combat, Dani. Never reveal your weakness.”
“Oh, we’re at war now, are we?” I say. “So was the photo up to your standards or not?”
He makes a growling noise. “Let’s just say I’m hard, and my cock is in my hands, I’m staring at your picture right now.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am in no way joking. Do you want to help me, Dani? Do you want to moan for me?” His voice gets deeper. I can so easily see him, probably lying on some plush sheets, his pants pulled down to his knees, his shirt rolled to reveal the muscular V of his abs as he strokes himself. “Moan like you did last night. Moan like I’m fucking you.”
“I’m sort of in my car,” I murmur.
“I said moan. Now.”
Oh God. When his voice gets deep and commanding like that I can hardly take it. There’s nothing clingy about it, like it might be with other men. Nothing like: Oh, come on, babe, just do this for me. Like a transaction. With Angelo, it’s more of a primal need. It’s like he’s a man dying of thirst in the desert and I’m his only drink.
So I moan, quietly, into the phone. I’m not much of an actress but I must do a pretty good job, because soon he’s snarling down the phone, his voice so loud in my ears I’m sure I can feel his breath.
“Are you close, playboy?” I moan, for real now, no acting required. His breathing is driving me crazy. “Tell me how close you are.”
He roars, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out with him.
Then I look around the car, making sure nobody was eavesdropping. “If you’re lucky,” I say, “you might get one without the bra next time. But I’ve gotta go. Catch you later.”
Maybe it’s a bit of a power play, the way I hang up, letting him know that even if he called me and I did that for him, I’m not his personal plaything. Even if part of me likes being his personal plaything. So I guess that’s just a giant contradiction.
I head upstairs to the apartment, thinking that maybe Wyatt and I will have some dinner together. It’s six o’clock, so I hope he hasn’t eaten yet.
But when I walk in, Wyatt isn’t there. He’s not in the bedroom or the living room or the bathroom. I knock on Zora’s door. I can hear Avril Lavigne playing, so I know she’s working. She likes to blast old-school pop rock while she sketches sometimes. I knock harder.
“Yeah?” she calls.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
I open the door and she swivels around in her chair. I look around her room, over the unmade bed and the sketches and notes scattered everywhere, as if Wyatt might be lurking in the shadows.
“Have you seen Wyatt?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Oh, wait a sec. I haven’t seen him but there’s a note on the fridge.”
“Okay.”
“Is everything okay?”
I laugh, nodding, because what the hell am I going to say, exactly? My adult brother is not home at six o’clock and it’s freaking me out big-time? I go into the kitchen and read the note. That’s when my belly really does drop, because I know exactly what it’s implying.
Crashing at a friend’s for the night. Love you, sis. Wyatt.
I stroke my hand over the note as though I can wipe away the ink, and so wipe away reality. Sleeping over at a friend’s? We both know that means he’s going to get high. Oh, it won’t start with any hard stuff. He’ll have a few drinks and a couple of bong hits, and then he’ll feel sleepy, so he’ll need an upper, too … and on and on, until his body is a drug cocktail.
I take out my cell phone, pacing, as I call him. He’s been so good these past two weeks. I seriously thought I was getting the old Wyatt back. He doesn’t answer.
I call again. No answer.
Again. Nothing. Fucking nothing.
“Hey, hey,” Zora says, walking toward me with her hands raised. “You’re shaking, Dani. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”